home is where the whiskey is

It is often said that home is where the heart is. There are elements of truth to this sentiment, however it raises additional questions as to the literal and metaphorical meanings of this saying.


Let's start with "Home". The literal version, being where you live, is fairly obvious. However, over the years, I have noticed that I haven't always used the term 'home' to describe where I lived. I often said, "I left it at the apartment" or "I'm at the house" instead of labeling my residence by an emotional term: home. I really liked where I lived (sometimes), but it felt as though it was a fallacy to thrust such a strong, evocative term upon them... It was if I were to call a man I had just started seeing my 'boyfriend' and it would change the entire dynamic of the relationship. I feel as though I need to "date" a place before committing to it, let alone dropping big words like "home" and "love".


Someone very close to me said that in all his travels, his bed was the most important thing. When he moved to Melbourne, Australia he prioritized his bed as the most important aspect of his residence: it wasn't home until he had his preferred bed. My back agrees with him. I told him I needed a place to call my own: a door to shut to be alone and a place to put my stuff so I could live & explore.


I remember my first house in Santa Ana, California relatively well, especially considering I was 4 when we left it. It was a sweet, one story home on a street lined with huge trees. It had a brick front porch (laid by my parents I believe) and when you walked in, the dark carpet lead you to the hallway on your right with all of the rooms, as well as the living room straight ahead. The kitchen had linoleum floors and I remember staring at them when it hurt to eat my chicken nuggets and, shortly after, my mom told me the doctors needed to take my tonsils out. I remember a dark brown, wood coffee table that I pushed my baby sister off of onto that dark carpet and got in trouble. It was that same table I hid behind my dad when we watched E.T. Extraterrestrial because that damned alien was going to chase me. It was this home that I remember putting on heels and packing a suitcase to go to work just like my parents, though child labor laws discriminated against me. I have these memories, I can see the house, I remember Jesse, the little boy next door, but none of this makes it a home.


My house since March of 1989 feels like home. That house saw twenty birthdays, three proms, countless dates, a half dozen boyfriends, my first kiss with a girl, my second kiss with a boy, my absolute worst day ever, some of my favorite days ever, life coming into the world, life leaving the world, and life moving on. I remember my sister and I being in trouble and we sat in our doorways and communicated silently about absolutely nothing, just to do it. I remember sliding down the once blue carpet of our 14-step stairs on my bum making random noises just to see what it would sound like as I went faster and faster. I know the slope of the front yard well enough to be able to close my eyes and let the grass tell me before I stub my toe on the cement sidewalk for the hundredth time.


Conversely, it is not just that I grew up in this house in Corona that makes it home: it is in fact, my family. Our memories make it home. Returning to this vault of memories after five years away, my room was completely different from paint to pictures; but I still slept better than I had in years. The energy, the memories, the love...


Since I left home at the age of twenty, I have lived in 11 apartments and houses, including my place in Quito, Ecuador, where I currently reside. That's seven years, folks, and a lot of shifting, packing, storing, moving, unpacking, repacking, and stacking. I. Hate. Moving.


I do, however, love traveling. Lately I have been pondering the reasons why I am so comfortable being über-independent and why I crave traveling the world as much as I do. I'm 27 years old, shouldn't I be looking for a mate and to settle down with all the trimmings (i.e.- house, car, kids, etc.)? I have pondered if the fact that the only constant in my life over the last 7-10 years has been change has allowed me to grow accustomed to inconsistency.


"The only things certain in life are death and taxes."


And change.


I moved to Ecuador two short but life-filled months ago to teach English as a foreign language. I visit various companies and teach their HR departments, general managers and top executives Business English. Every day is different for me: the classes I teach, the people I meet, the things I see. Every week someone in my life leaves or a new person enters. The temporary nature of the career may be exactly what I need to get my fix of change without denying myself (or others in my life) the importance of steady life.


In all of the eleven places I lived in the last seven years, the one that felt most like home was the only place I lived alone, my apartment in Irving, Texas. It was absolutely mine from paint to pictures. Now, here in Quito, I find myself feeling at home more and more as time goes by. Perhaps, it is the two incredible people I have found myself living with. Both of my roommates, though respectfully different, managed to charm their way into my heart. Today, I found myself chatting with them both as one streamed American NFL games and the other prepped to shoot a music video and I was sewing their clothes that needed mending and offering to cook breakfast. When did I become a housewife to an American and an Ecuadorian? I'll let you know when I finish the laundry and the dishes...


That brings us to "Heart". All of those things make me happy. I am beginning to think that people have a huge influence on whether a domicile feels like a residence or a home. But wait... That can't be. I am ridiculously hesitant to depend on others for anything... Especially my happiness. So, where does that leave me? My heart- my true soulmate and companion in this life/ is always honest with me and I listen to it way too much- shows me what makes me happy. When I am happy, I am home. I suppose that at this point I must admit that a cliché is actually something I can't scoff at, dammit.


What makes me happy? Jesus, that's the question of the century. The list I have developed is a red hot, dichotomous mess. It's awesome. Perhaps it is a little more personal than I'd prefer to venture in this blog, but those AP Lit students out there can tap their deductive reading skills and make their own conclusions from previous blogs. Basically, anything involving travel, friends, food, whiskey, wine, beer, art, surprises, writing, or education is a fair shot. If you can combine any of those, you're in great shape.


There are things that I miss dearly that make me feel at home: whiskey (so expensive here I can't afford it) In-n-Out Burger, Sriracha, Tapatio, good cheese (that melts), Pho, Pandora, good spaghetti sauce, being able to carry my iPhone in public, buying booze on Sundays, and Red Bull. Some have decent substitutes and some do not... Please, dear readers, go out and indulge in these in my honor.


As I have traveled to eight uniquely amazing countries, I have left a part of me there, as a thank you to the country and its culture. I have also managed to take with me a new part of me that I was unaware existed. If I am leaving a part of my heart in places like Japan, Ireland and Italy... Is it then possible that my home- which resides with or within my heart- is then everywhere as well? I believe, with all my heart-pieces, that it absolutely is.


My home, with my family, will always be such and I am grateful. My home, within myself, is something I need to remember is very real and very beautiful. My future homes- be it alone, with friends, or a mate- will be a fantastic chapter in my life and I am eagerly (but patiently) anticipating that time.


I know not where my next house will be, let alone my next home, but I do know that wherever it stands, it better have room for my heart. And a bottle of whiskey.


Missing home, but making a new one... Hearts and stars to the States.


xx.a

Quito, Ecuador.... My new home....